


sail away, sail away, sail away

by hellbeast



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Car Insurance, Crack, Enya - Freeform, Fluff and Crack, Gen, I hope you guys like Orinoco Flow, M/M, Road Rage, The Power of New Age Celtic Pop, it's not relevant to the plot but rest assured that the ship is all caps
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-02
Updated: 2017-05-02
Packaged: 2018-10-27 02:20:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10799664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellbeast/pseuds/hellbeast
Summary: It starts out subtle: Barnes reaches up to adjust the rear view mirror, which Sam wouldn’t make much note of, if not for the fact that he does it again, a couple minutes later. And then again. Before Sam can even attempt to ask what’s wrong, his hands slip from ten and two down to nine and three, and his blank face—mouth flat, brows low, but no discernible emotion—wavers, ripples and resettles as the Murder Face™.“Oh god,” Sam murmurs to himself, one hand gripping the safety handle. He’s going to die in bumper-to-bumper four lane traffic.





	1. we can sail with the orinoco flow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Unclesteeb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unclesteeb/gifts).



Sam isn’t quite sure how he feels about riding shotgun in a car with James Buchanan Barnes at the wheel, considering what happened the last time the two of them and cars were involved in the same space. His insurance agent still hasn’t called him back, and he hasn’t looked at his new rate for fear of an aneurysm.

So far, though, it seems to be going… well.

Barnes drives with his hands at ten and two, adjusted his seat and mirrors when he got in, and keeps the radio on at a gentle murmur, low enough that the two of them could talk over it if they wanted to. Sam is thinking that Barnes might’ve actually gotten his license the normal way, unlike Steve “I learned to drive by hot wiring Jeeps in Nazi Germany” Rogers, who treats seat belts like newfangled contraptions and considers stop signs and traffic lights as though they’re obstacles to be overcome. By comparison, driving with Barnes is like driving with someone who probably _won’t_ run the car off the road because he thought it might “cut some time off the commute”.

At least, that’s what Sam thinks, right up until the clock hits 17:00. Rush hour traffic.

They’re moving maybe four feet every fifteen minutes, a staccato lurch-forward and roll-back that never ends. There’s nothing ahead but a sea of red tail lights.

It starts out subtle: Barnes reaches up to adjust the rear view mirror, which Sam wouldn’t make much note of, if not for the fact that he does it again, a couple minutes later. And then again. Before Sam can even attempt to ask what’s wrong, his hands slip from ten and two down to nine and three, and his blank face—mouth flat, brows low, but no discernible emotion—wavers, ripples and resettles as the Murder Face™.

“Oh god,” Sam murmurs to himself, one hand gripping the safety handle. He’s going to die in bumper-to-bumper four lane traffic.

By 17:20, Barnes is adjusting the mirror every other minute, and Sam is honestly concerned that he’s going to reach behind him and pull out a semiautomatic. Sure, Sam did a quick look around when he got in, because he is definitely not ready to be stuck in an enclosed space with Barnes _and_ weapons, but Sam also holds no illusions that Barnes could pack the whole car full of guns and knives without anyone being any the wiser.

But Barnes doesn’t reach back. He reaches forward, and hits the CD button.

It’s so far from what Sam was anticipating that at first he doesn’t even recognize the song that starts to play, soft and melodic.

“Wait,” Sam says, after a moment, “is this _**Enya**_?”

Barnes is breathing deeply, head swimming side to side in time with the beat. He’s mouthing along to the words. Sam is convinced he’s been temporarily transported into a parallel universe, because that’s the only explanation that makes sense. Barnes shoots Sam a glance out the corner of his eye, mumbling along, and then replies:

“Yes.”

_We can sail, we can sail with the Orinoco Flow–_

By now, the traffic is moving a little faster, namely in that it’s moving. Sam watches, in utter fascination, as Barnes’ face starts to smooth out, his back straightening and his jaw unclenching.

_We can sail, we can sail (sail away, sail away, sail away)–_

The song ends, and then immediately starts to play again. Sam glances at the dashboard and sees ‘Track 02/35’, and resigns himself to two plus hours of Enya. Considering what might’ve happened (explosions, screaming, Murder Face™, overturned cars, and several rising insurance premiums), Sam will take it without complaint. If Barnes can quench his own road rage with nothing more than the power of New Age Celtic Pop, more power to him.

They make it to the fourth repeat, and Sam is just thinking that they’ll make it out of this alive and well, when some asshole in an F-150 cuts them off. The car jerks to the side as Barnes breaks to avoid hitting the pickup, and his arm swings out fast to press Sam back against the passenger seat. Sam starts to say thanks, but stops because the Murder Face™ is back with a vengeance, and oh god, Sam is going to die on the fucking Beltway.

Desperately, Sam reaches forward and jams the volume button.

“What–” Barnes starts to say, but then the only thing Sam can hears is:

_FROM BALI TO CALI, FAR BENEATH THE CORAL SEA_

“Wilson–” Barnes looks somewhere between amused and utterly lost. The driver of the sedan to their right is staring, eyebrows raised. Sam keeps cranking the volume up.

_**TURN IT UP, TURN IT UP, TURN IT UP, UP, ADIEU, OH** _

By the time Enya promises that they can sail from Bissau to Palau, Barnes is laughing so hard that’s he crying. Or he might just be crying. Sam cautiously lowers the volume.

“Better?”

Barnes snorts, wiping his face with one hand, “Yeah, yeah, we’re good.”

“Good,” Sam says.

“We were good before–”

“Uh uh. You looked like you were about to pull a rocket launcher out the trunk and show that man the error of his ways.”

Barnes, horrifyingly, glances towards the trunk with a thoughtful look. “Maybe not the rocket launcher.”

Sam needs to stop hanging out with Super Soldiers and Assassins, stat.

“Don’t make me put Enya back on.”

“You can’t weaponize my own road rage playlist against me, Wilson.”

Sam raised his eyebrows, folds his arms.

“Wanna bet?”

Barnes frowns, thinks for a minute and then puts his hands back at ten and two. Sam leans back in the passenger seat.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i blame unclesteeb and their anons for this


	2. maybe sam should switch to state farm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’d love to help,” Natasha had said with a smile, “and normally we’d take care of this no problem. But lately, HR has been a little… backed up.”
> 
> ‘HR’ is either in the Potomac or gone to ground. Sam isn’t going to waste his newfound rapport with Nick Fury over his car.
> 
> …. Not to say he hasn’t _thought_ about it. Sam liked his rate right where it was, damnit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @earthzero on tumblr wanted to know a little more about sam dealing with his insurance company after the fight on the bridge

Steve, who has never had any form of insurance in his life, let alone car insurance, asks, “What can I do, Sam. Do I need to write in? Cuz I’ll write in. I’ll go in person.”

“Last resort,” Sam decides, because if it comes down to it, he’ll do whatever the hell it takes if it means keeping his current rate.

(“I’d love to help,” Natasha had said with a smile, “and normally we’d take care of this no problem. But lately, HR has been a little… backed up.”

‘HR’ is either in the Potomac or gone to ground. Sam isn’t going to waste his newfound rapport with Nick Fury over his car.

…. Not to say he hasn’t _thought_ about it. Sam liked his rate right where it was, damnit.)

Barnes, who'd ‘apologized’ for totaling Sam’s car by leaving a steering wheel under Sam’s pillow, like the gaping asshole he is, just shrugs.

“I mean,” he says, with the air of someone who knows nothing of what they’re talking about, “Can’t you just tell em what happened? We were on the news and everything.”

“They’ll want proof,” Sam says, for the fifth time.

Barnes jerks a thumb at Steve. “There you go, six-foot-two all-American proof.”

“Photographic evidence,” Sam amends.

“Are you sure?” Steve asks. “Because if someone over there is givin you a hard time, Sam—”

There is no “someone over there” giving Sam a hard time. Unless, of course, by “someone”, one meant his agent and every single staff member of agent’s office.

“How come you ain’t got pictures, then?” Barnes cuts in.

“I didn’t exactly have time to stop for selfies in between running for my life and trying to keep up with Captain Adrenaline Junkie, here.”

Barnes mouths the phrase ‘stop for selfies’ to himself with an incredulous look on his face.

Although, admittedly, if Sam _had_ been able to get a shot of him kicking Barnes across those two lanes of traffic, he’d probably feel a little less stressed. The picture wouldn’t do anything to help his current situation, but the hell if it wouldn’t cathartic to look at.

Barnes leans back in his chair. “I guess I just don’t get it. Really, we were _on the news_.”

Either Barnes has forgotten that his 15 Minutes of Fame were for being known as the man who tried to kill Captain America, and that there’s still a warrant out for his arrest, or the 1940s Brooklynite in him just doesn’t care. On the news is on the news.

“ _You two_ were on the news. There was a twenty second clip of a man with wings dodging missiles, too far away to be identified, and that has absolutely nothing to do with my car.” Sam has it memorized, he’s heard it so many times.

Steve sputters. “Your car looks like it got sent through a wood chipper, what do they _think_ happened to it?”

Oh, if this ain’t the best part. By best he means worst.

“At best, I crashed it while rubbernecking.”

“Rubbernecking?” Barnes sounds offended on Sam’s behalf, which would be nice, if the next words out his mouth weren’t: “I put my fist _through the windshield_. I _pulled the steering wheel out_.”

“Yes, _I remember_ ,” Sam manages, through gritted teeth.

“Aren’t there bullet holes in the headrests?” Steve asks.

“ _ **Yes**_ ,” Sam and Barnes say at the same time.

Barnes adds, like he honestly thinks he’s being helpful, “And one of the doors is off, but that one’s not on me.”

“ _It’s **entirely** on you_ ,” Sam hisses.

“All that and they’re still calling it rubbernecking?”

Sam sighs, and tilts his head to the paper Steve is holding. “Technically, they have this special policy for 'enhanced individuals’, which I’m pretty sure they introduced after the whole thing in New York, if not earlier. Anyway, it comes with a clause for 'damages sustained in extenuating circumstances’ which is a nice way of saying 'weird superhero shit’.”

“That sounds… nice?” Steve tries. Barnes snorts.

“It would be,” Sam agrees, “Except a) I’m not enhanced or a superhero and b) the whole policy was clearly written with Stark in mind, and I do **not** have Stark’s kinda money.”

Steve opens his mouth.

“If you’re about to tell me that I _am_ a hero, that’s sweet, but also completely missing the point.”

Steve closes his mouth. Sam waits. Tentatively, Steve offers, “We can take my bike down to the office on Tuesday?”

Sam looks down at the papers spread across the table. The car hadn’t even been paid off, damnit.

He figures Steve can probably come up with one of his little speeches, really wow the agent and his staff. Really show off that Jawline of Justice™, and get Sam's rate back to where it was.

“Yeah okay,” he says, “sure.”

“I could go, too,” Barnes adds. Sam almost takes him seriously, until he actually looks over and sees the cheeky little smirk. Barnes is such an asshole. He flexes his metal arm. “You know, for evidence.”

“I could break my foot off in your ass, how about that?”

**Author's Note:**

> u can find me on [tumblr](http://manymouths.tumblr.com)


End file.
